


Revelations

by flamethrower



Series: Innocuous Juxtapositions Outside of Time and Space [4]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Family, GFY, Gen, Meddling TARDIS, Other, Post-Season/Series 11, Sentient TARDIS, Team TARDIS, Time Lord Angst, Time Lords and Ladies, feelscoaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 00:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20126347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: The Doctor was just trying to respond to a voicemail and go to the right place. Two things wrong, of course: 1) She forgot she had voicemail (and that older mobile) for two thousand years, so she's running a bit late, and 2) the TARDIS has her own idea of when and where they should go first...as usual.1:19: "Write, therefore, what you have seen: both what is now and what will take place later."





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry-not-sorry at all, these universes sharing a sandbox is canon now, I don't make the rules.
> 
> https://cdn.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/UZwQptHaXFVs_npWYrBSDQ3GcqM=/0x0:2878x1222/1320x0/filters:focal(0x0:2878x1222):format(webp):no_upscale()/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_asset/file/16319357/Good_Omens_Doctor_Who_Crowley_Gallifrey.jpg

The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS and immediately sank into loose sand. She looked down and sighed. No walkways. “See, now, this is when the sandshoes would have been appropriate.” She considered her options and then shrugged and went with what she had. Wardrobe changes were such a pain, she liked her coat, and the boots would do well enough. Good traction and all that.

She pulled out her sonic and held it to her ear, pointed it, and then listened again. “Oh. Oh, that’s…” She turned around and glared at the TARDIS. “This is _not_ the origin point of that phone call!”

The TARDIS let out a pleased little hum that only a Time Lord (or a good psychic species) could hear, but otherwise ignored her. She’d missed on purpose, the cheeky thing. Always had her own ideas about time and space.

“Fine. Might as well go and meet the locals, then. Ooooh, a beach! I like beaches. Don’t I? I haven’t seen many yet. I expect I do.” The Doctor happily wandered off in the direction of gentle cresting waves, the smell of salt, and the sound of birds fighting over the pickings. The water was a gentle blue-green with a familiar feel. “The Mediterranean? Really?” She shook her head. “Wrong side of the globe, too. What’s so important that you put me so far off the beaten path?”

The TARDIS didn’t answer her. Not that she expected it to. Whenever she traveled alone, especially of late when the Fam was busy, she talked to the TARDIS just to feel a bit less lonely.

“Oh, lonely. That is definitely the sort of person I am, isn’t it?” the Doctor muttered, sighing. Still, she was in the Mediterranean, it was a lovely day, there was probably some bit of trouble lurking about somewhere, and ultimately, wasn’t that what mattered?

“I could have sworn the area was a bit more populated than this, though. I mean, it’s the Mediterranean. What—what _year_ is it, anyway?”

She tilted her head, listening. She mostly had it all back, that ear for knowing exactly when she was, and where, but sometimes things went wobbly and it was all guesswork. She was, after all, technically two bodies ahead of the end of a Time Lord’s life cycle. Couldn’t expect everything to be tip-top.

“1020 BCE.” The Doctor blinked a few times. “Three thousand years off course? Oh, you must really have sniffed out something you liked.”

The Doctor glanced down at her clothes. “Not regulation issue for a Mediterranean woman three thousand years ago. Oh…bugger. Maybe I’ll just tell them I’m from India. Or Alaska—no, that won’t work. Spain? No. Sumer—oh, definitely not, that’s over and done with. Persia? That might be a bit weird…”

Around eleven-thirty in the morning, she found a village—small city in this day and age—but the Doctor still hadn’t decided on any sort of cover story for her appearance. It was really starting to itch her skin how easy it was to travel as a man and just be accepted anywhere, and now that she had breasts, it’s a complete pain—and it nearly got her burnt at the stake. She’d much rather the TARDIS had gotten it right and landed her in 2020, where she could wander around just as she was without risking stakes and fire.

“Maybe I’ll just tell them I’m a Greek god,” she grumbled under her breath, and then jerked in place and yanked out her sonic when it started vibrating. “And what have you found, then?”

She stared at it. Then she shook it, tapped the side of the casing, and checked again.

“Oh. Oh, that’s…that’s probably not good. I should leave. I should definitely—”

“Why, hello there!”

The Doctor dropped her face into her free hand. Face-palming, that’s what the Fam called it. Then she turned around and found herself face-to-face with the first Time Lord—er, Time Lady she’d seen since Missy up and vanished after that mess with the space station.

She did hope Missy was all right. Things were such a disorienting mess right before her regeneration that the Doctor had no idea, but…well, it _was_ Missy. She excelled at not-dying.

This Time Lady had honey-toned blonde hair done up in one of the much older, complicated hairstyles, right before the days of those rather stupid headpieces the Lords insisted were such important bits of nonsense. Her eyes were a rather pleasant brown, a bit familiar even, and she was several centimeters shorter than the Doctor. She was even dressed for the era; that dress was a match for the hairstyle, and both were fairly close to what women in the Mediterranean were wearing right now. The Time Lady’s blonde hair looked striking against brown skin, but it was very pretty, and that was the first thing that fell out of the Doctor’s mouth.

The Time Lady smiled at her. “Why, thank you. I see you’ve gone for the natural look, yourself.”

The Doctor’s eye twitched before she realized it wasn’t actually meant to be an insult. “Oh, it’s just easier for me,” she said. “I’m busy a lot. You, though, you’re carrying off the old style really well.”

The Time Lady patted her hair. “Old style? But this is—oh. Oh, dear.”

“Yeah, uh…you’re a bit…” The Doctor held out her hands and spread them wide. “Gallifreyan time, you’re a bit far behind me, and I’m a great deal ahead of you, and I should probably shut up now.”

“Hmm. That does make it difficult to introduce myself, doesn’t it?”

The Doctor shrugged and held out her hand. “Jane Smith.”

The Time Lady stared at it.

“Oh. Go ahead, reach out, take it,” the Doctor explained. “It’s an Earth tradition. Well, it will be. Still in developmental stages, this sort of greeting, but it’ll do in a pinch right now.”

“Oh, thank you.” The Time Lady reached out and touched the Doctor’s hand; the Doctor wrapped her fingers gently around the Lady’s much more delicate hand, gave it a slight shake, and then let go. “I’m terribly sorry for that bit of rudeness. It’s my first time on this particular planet.”

“Oh! Oh, you’ll like it quite a bit. It tends to have numerous fun disasters and attracts all sorts of trouble!” the Doctor proclaimed, grinning.

“Oh? You’re that fond of trouble?” the Time Lady asked, her smile widening.

“Keeps me on my toes. Keeps me busy. Keeps me from getting _bored_,” the Doctor replied.

“Yes, I can see that.” The Time Lady gave her a very careful look, and the Doctor could feel the psychic bit crawling all over her. It wasn’t the prodding, invasive, tell-me-everything sort, just a general bit of meet-up among Time Lords that the Doctor had all but forgotten had ever been a thing. Even Missy hadn’t done it, which showed how much it’d fallen out of practice when there wasn’t anyone else about sharing your own culture.

“You have seen a great deal, haven’t you?” the Time Lady’s expression slipped into sadness. “No wonder you want to keep busy. You’ve a number of years on me, dear.”

“Er, yeah. Just a bit,” the Doctor admitted, trying not to feel ashamed of that. What a ridiculous feeling, anyway. “What do I call you, then?”

“Well, if we’re not using our real names…” The Time Lady considered it. “Helen?”

“Uh, this is very much not the right period of history to use that particular name,” the Doctor protested at once, wide-eyed. “There’s a bit of a thing happening with a lady going by that particular name right now. Fixed point in time, too.”

“Ah. Yes, I thought I could feel something impending that was not to be mucked about with,” the Time Lady agreed. “Adam?”

“Sorry, that’s a boy’s name. Not that _we_ care,” the Doctor added, “but they’re a bit particular about it, humans are. They grow out of it, though.”

“That is good to know. I hope it doesn’t take a terribly long time for humans to get past those sorts of gender issues. We’re still ridiculous about it as it is.” The Time Lady pulled a device of her gown’s pocket, a legitimate Gallifreyan antique that made the Doctor want to have her hands all over it. “Call me Madonna, then.”

The Doctor paused with her hands instinctively reaching out for the shiny device. “Madonna?”

“Yes. Is that inappropriate?”

“Well, no! Probably not, I mean,” the Doctor decided. “A bit over a thousand years before that would be an issue, that name, and then another two thousand years or so after that when it might get you confused with someone else in an inconvenient sort of way, so no, that’ll do fine. Right then, I should be off—wait. Actually I hadn’t remembered to ask yet. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Jane,” Madonna countered, taking a moment to aim the device at the city. “Oh, yes. I’m definitely on the right track,” she murmured about her results, and then tucked the device back into her pocket.

The Doctor was still struggling to recall what, exactly, that antique device was for. “I actually have _no _idea why I’m here,” she said. “I was aiming for 2020 CE, or AD, however you want to go about it, and missed by three thousand years.” The Doctor glanced at her watch. “Almost down to the minute, actually. I should’ve been there ’round about noon, and it’s getting on to be that now.”

“You’ve that much life experience, and yet you can’t aim for the proper place and time you mean to go?” Madonna asked in professional disbelief.

“That’s not my doing!” the Doctor protested. “My ship, she and I’ve been together for a very long time, and…well, sometimes she has her own ideas about where I need to go. Today it was here.”

“You should probably give her a good and proper scrubbing to get those sentience circuits back into their correct alignment, then,” Madonna said as they passed through the gated archway that protected the village. The gates were bronze, standing open, but the Doctor thought they’d do the job of keeping out the mercenaries that might be nipping about the coastline.

“Oh, no, I’d never do that.” The Doctor smiled. The T-40s had never taken well to being scrubbed, anyway. “It’d be like wiping a person out of existence at this point. Besides, she’s never done me wrong, and it’s not like I don’t have time to get where I was originally supposed to go.” She glanced off to the side and lowered her voice. “And it’s not like I’m not already two thousand years late, anyway.”

Madonna let out a surprise giggle. “Two thousand years late?”

“Yeah. Someone left me a message, voicemail,” the Doctor said. “Except I was a bit distracted by a crash-landing and people and dying the slow way and regenerating and being married again for a bit, and in all of that, I completely forgot I had that mobile phone in the first place. I didn’t think to check it until one of the Fam picked it up and told me I had a message waiting.”

Madonna laughed aloud, attracting attention. The glances Madonna earned were admiring, while the glances the Doctor earned were a bit baffled. At least no one was yelling at her yet for modesty or sorcery, so the Doctor decided to put that one in the win column. “I suppose you’ll catch up to them eventually.”

“I will, yeah.” The Doctor gave herself a light slap upside the head. “I’m sorry, this regeneration is still a bit new. I know we’re in the Mediterranean, and I know when, but I can’t quite pinpoint _where_.”

“Oh, this is Dardanus,” Madonna said. “This city, I mean. I’m not certain what the region surrounding it is called.”

The Doctor stopped walking. “Oh.”

Madonna glanced back at her. “Is that a problem, dear?”

“So long as I stay away from Troy itself? No, no problem at all,” the Doctor said. “Oh, I always did want to give this era a look-see, but I try to avoid fixed points in time. Just leads to trouble.”

“It can, yes,” Madonna agreed.

“I showed you mine,” the Doctor pressed after Madonna referenced her device again, leading them further into the city. “You’ve got to show me yours.”

“What?”

“Sorry, it’s a saying. Probably a weird saying, to be honest. Anyway, I told you why I was here,” the Doctor clarified. “What’s a Time Lady such as yourself doing in Dardanus?”

“Two Time Ladies,” Madonna countered, a bit smugly.

“Yeah, uh…this is actually my first go at being a woman, so…” the Doctor shrugged. “Old habits, sorry. Stop stalling! You’re being a sneak.”

“I suppose that depends on if I can ask you a question about the future.”

The Doctor grinned. “Definitely depends upon the sort of question you ask, then.”

“Indeed.” Madonna turned around and gave the Doctor a cautious, studious look. “Tell me, Jane, do we ever get over ourselves when it comes to breeding?”

“Er…you mean the looming and the really weird ideas about genetic matching if you want to go about it the biological way?” the Doctor asked, trying not to make any sort of disastrous face. Failing miserably, and she knew it, but still.

“Exactly that, yes.” Madonna sighed. “I take it the answer is no.”

“It’s a yes-no, no-yes sort of answer, actually,” the Doctor tried to clarify. “And the last time I was home, I was sort of kind of mostly out of my mind, so I wasn’t really paying attention to those sorts of details.”

Madonna peered at her and then reared back, appalled. “They stuffed you into a Confession Dial? Whatever _for_?”

“Oh. I, uh, made a few people among the higher-ups a bit upset, but I’m also sort of famous, so they couldn’t get rid of me, and…” The Doctor blew out a frustrated sigh. “And you know it takes a while to get out of one of those things.”

“Quite a while.”

“Four point five billion years of simulated time,” the Doctor growled under her breath. “And so much punching, and ooooooh!” She stamped her foot and then paused in surprised consideration. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever done that before. That felt different.”

“Four point five billion years.” Madonna shook her head sadly. “What did you do when you got out?”

“Well, since I was sort of mad in the starkers way, I went out, took over the government, made them go rescue a friend of mine, and then ran away from Gallifrey like my backside was on fire,” the Doctor replied. “About like usual, really.”

Madonna was biting back a smile. “You didn’t have a plan.”

“Hey, no, I’m great at planning!”

Madonna gave her a very specific look.

The Doctor’s shoulders slumped. “All right. I’m absolute rubbish at planning. But! But, I am _excellent_ at improvising. I can improvise my way out of anything! Anything at all. If I didn’t have that going for me, I would have been dead…wait, how old am I again?”

“Two thousand, nine hundred ninety-eight,” Madonna said at once. “Three months and six days, four hours, twenty-eight seconds.”

“Oi, no—now I have to remember that number! That’s terrible!” The Doctor shoved her hands into her hair. “That wasn’t nice!”

Madonna smiled. “You asked, dear.”

“Yes, but it was a rhetorical sort of asking!” the Doctor exclaimed. “Anyway, I’d have been dead a thousand years ago if I wasn’t truly brilliant at improvising—and at being brilliant in general.”

“I feel very young compared to you. I’m only four hundred three,” Madonna said thoughtfully. “Tell me, Jane: do you have thoughts on genetic matching if it takes you away from Gallifrey entirely?”

The Doctor nearly strangled herself on her own spit. “You mean, am I opposed to…the…standards…about how we’re supposed to…procreate?”

Madonna nodded. “Yes, that.”

The Doctor felt a flush climb up her cheeks. “I’m really not—I’m really not the best person to ask about that. Really. I should probably go.”

“Does that mean you’re against it?” Madonna asked, one eyebrow raised.

“What—oh! No. No, I think the looming and the restrictions and the biological cross-matching is complete rubbish! It’s just…I shouldn’t. Have an opinion. On…” The Doctor trailed off. “You’re here looking for a genetic match. On Earth.”

Madonna gave her a sunny smile. “I am doing exactly that, yes. I think looming is ridiculous, no matter what that fool Rassilon has to say about it, and I didn’t find anyone on Gallifrey that felt like they’d be the right fit. Besides, I’m not looking for a husband of any sort. That’s not really to my preference in the slightest. I just want a baby—oh, goodness, dear, why are you crying?”

The Doctor had her hand clamped over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to start crying, but apparently this body had a mind of its own when it came to tears, and now it was a thing that was happening even while she was desperately telling it to stop.

Madonna led her over to a shaded area, some sort of lovely outdoor cantina, and sat them down on a stone bench. “Really, my dear, things will be fine. I’m sure they are. You’ve definitely been a parent at some point, having that sort of reaction. No looming, I presume?”

“No,” the Doctor choked out. “Stupid genetic matching. I just didn’t want to _not_ have kids, and… and…I couldn’t take any chances with having it any other way!” Then she buried her face in her hands and tried not to sob. Drat this body. She’d always thought her gangly self and his bloody sandshoes had been the one with the intense feelings that just Happened Everywhere.

She’d wanted children with River. She’d wanted it so badly she could taste it, but River and Amy had both been done a terrible wrong by the bloody Silence. Sterile. No children. No more little ones.

Rory and Amy adopted a few, after being stuck in Manhattan in the past. The Doctor couldn’t rescue them because of those stupid, stupid Weeping Angels making their send-back a fixed point, but she could _visit_ them, and well—Amy had gotten over the gender switch a lot faster than Rory. Then there had been more tears when she’d told them about her life with River, all those wonderful years when it was just them and the singing mountains. She’d told them that River had been happy, and it wasn’t a lie at all.

The Doctor had no idea when she gained a handkerchief, but it was soft, and it dried her eyes. “Oh, uh…thank you,” she sniffed. “Oh, you—oh, I soaked this, you probably don’t want it back.” She paused. “Actually, I probably _can’t_ give it back. I should probably go—”

Madonna kept a gentle grip on the Doctor’s arm. “No, I really don’t think you should. You’re carrying around quite a bit of sorrow that you never deal with. That’s not healthy, you know.”

“I don’t…no one deserves that sort of burden,” the Doctor whispered. “It’s too much. It’s so much, just…” A few more stubborn tears leaked out of her eyes. Bugger.

Madonna signaled for the owner of the cantina to bring them both drinks. They were warm, but it was pomegranate juice. The Doctor sniffed at it and decided that she could probably like pomegranate juice.

“Just drink it. You know how our bodies are when we get so emotional. Everything goes completely out of alignment,” Madonna reminded her.

The Doctor sniffed again. “Yeah.” The juice wasn’t so bad. She’d rather a bit of tea, but she wasn’t up to a jaunt off to China at the moment. She didn’t even have the tea tins on the TARDIS restocked, because Rory had been doing that, and then it just…stopped.

“You said that you didn’t have a choice about the way you had children.” Madonna gave the Doctor’s empty gourd an approving look. “Did the restrictions get worse?”

“No, no, it…it’s probably about the same as what you’re dealing with now. Did you really call Rassilon a fool?”

“Not to his face. Not yet. I’m strongly considering it, though,” Madonna said. “Why?”

The Doctor giggled and sniffed again. “Oh, I called him ever so much worse than that. It’s just nice to know that I come by it honestly, is all.”

Madonna put their gourds aside to be collected and then turned to face the Doctor. She gently took the Doctor’s face in her hands. “You come by it honestly?”

The Doctor nodded, feeling a bit sodden and heartsick. “Yeah. You did your best, but I have such a mouth, me. Gets me into so much trouble.”

Madonna’s face lit up with a slow, beautiful joy that was all but indescribable, even for a Time Lord. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, just…oh, look at you. You’re more than I dared to ever hope for.”

“Hi, Mum,” the Doctor whispered, and then was suddenly wrapped in strong arms, held by a familiar aura. “Oh, hello, hello, hello. I missed you.”

Madonna strengthened her psychic field until it was better than the hug. “I didn’t expect to meet you before I met you!”

“I didn’t know! You never told me,” The Doctor smiled, even though she was still—frustratingly—leaking tears. “You didn’t even tell me I was half-human until I was wearing my third face!”

“Your third?” Madonna leans back, studying her and then brushing the Doctor’s hair away from her eyes. “At least I was sensible enough to be cautious. And so were you, given what you said about your children.”

“Oh! Oh, no, it wasn’t about—that was actually my very first life.” The Doctor wiped at her eyes and tried to be less of a complete mess. “I had no idea there might be any of _those_ problems. It’s that I’d gotten myself booted out of the Academy for mouthing off. Among other things. I mean, I did graduate, which they hadn’t realized I’d gone and finished up on until they were ready to expel me, but—I was trying to stay out of trouble for a bit. You were so disappointed in me.”

“Oh, Jane. I have a feeling I wasn’t disappointed at all,” Madonna responded gently. “Hmm. I don’t suppose you could give me a hint on where I’m meant to go, then? The biological tracker is trying to convince me I’m walking in the wrong direction while going in the entirely _correct_ direction.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s what that is. I’d forgotten what they looked like when I hadn’t cobbled them together from scratch.” The Doctor leaned back and shook her head. “I’m sorry, and not because I can’t. You never told me who my dad was. You’d never said why, you just always told me you couldn’t.”

Madonna smiled and gripped the Doctor’s hands. “Maybe this is why. Maybe it’s because I already knew that one day, you’d find out for yourself.”

“Funny way to find out, though, don’t you think?” the Doctor asked, trying not to break down into giggling that didn’t feel like it would be the funny sort.

“We’re Time Ladies, dear,” Madonna said, squeezing her hands. “There is no such thing as a proper order to doing these things.”

“I met my wife before I knew who she was after we’d already been living together for nearly thirty years, so, yeah, that…yeah.” The Doctor stood up. “Let’s follow the biometric device, Mum.”

Madonna made a bright, happy noise and hugged her. “I do like the sound of that. You should—you should probably not do that again, though.”

“No, but…I had to do it again. Just the once more.”

They stopped briefly by a fountain with water that smelled like it was probably clean. Clean enough, anyway. The Doctor scrubbed her face, dried off with a bit of sonic assistance, and immediately felt much better. Crying was horrible. It always had been, crying, because then she had to deal with _sad_, but it seemed like this body turned crying into a messy disaster, every time.

Madonna argued with the biometric reader when it kept trying to send them backwards. The Doctor suggested they just turn the device around, which didn’t really work, but as long as they went in the opposite direction the device suggested, they were still going in the correct direction. The Doctor had no idea why it felt correct beyond something that was probably a deep biological sense. Madonna explained that she had several years’ experience dealing with this particular biometric device, and now she always knew when it was mucking her about.

“What are they called right now? Taverns? Bars? Cantinas? Watering holes? Pubs?” the Doctor wondered, studying their destination. She could smell wine, and definitely a few other fermented and questionable things.

Madonna led them inside. “I don’t really think the name of it matters very much.”

It was dark in the tavern. Tavern worked well enough; always go with your first instincts. The light was cast by torches that hadn’t been placed very well, and there was only one decent window. Wouldn’t do to let in too much heat, or the whole point of building the tavern from stone was sort of moot. Kept things cool in the summer, and warm in the winter if you crammed in enough living human bodies.

The Doctor let her eyes adjust to the horrible lighting before glancing around. Judging by the women wandering around with pitchers, and the lack of women sitting at the tables, it was definitely a Men sort of place. The Doctor tried not to scowl in response. There were bronze swords, a few iron swords—neat, that, right on time—some shields strapped to broad backs, a few helmets resting on the tables, and a few men who refused to take their helmets off. They were definitely part of an army, probably visiting from the siege happening down the way at the walls of Troy. Everyone else in the tavern was dressed in clothing appropriate to the time period, some heads wrapped up, some not. It was about equal parts filthy and clean, since humanity tended to lean to one extreme or the other, and this was a bit of a cultural mashup.

Then one black-wrapped head at the bar snapped up. “What is that Heavenly annoying fucking _beeping_?”

“Ah!” Madonna smiled. “There we are. Follow me, dear.” She led the way directly over to the man, who was dressed entirely in black except for a bit of a scarlet…scarf? It might be a scarf, but it looked like more of a fashion statement.

“Hello!” Madonna greeted him brightly.

The man slumped lower in his seat. “Please turn off the noisy beeping thing and go away. I’m busy trying to get shitfaced, here.”

Madonna blinked a few times, retrieved the biometric device, and turned it off. “My apologies for the beeping. I was actually hoping I might speak to you.” She paused, and when that got them no reaction at all, said, “I was hoping to make a deal with you.”

“Deal?” The man straightened up and turned around. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

The Doctor stared. She took a moment to rub her eyes. Then she stared a bit more.

“No,” she said to Madonna.

Madonna nodded. “Yes.”

“Is there a problem? Because if it’s my eyes, you can fuck right off,” the man with her tenth face said.

“You’re _ginger_!” the Doctor shrieked, clenching her fists and then stamping her foot again. “You’re absolutely, completely bloody _ginger_!”

The man held up a lock of his long, very ginger hair. “Uh, yeah. What’ve you got against gingers, anyway?”

Madonna looked very amused. “Never once, dear?”

“No! Not ever once! I mean, yes once with the face, which I’m trying very hard not to think about right now, but never, ever ginger!” the Doctor retorted. “Oooooh, this is—this is punishment. This is someone’s idea of a cosmic bloody joke. Not that that’s a new thing or anything. BUGGER!”

The man with the golden eyes (and the wrong sort of pupils for a human) gave them a curious look that he was trying to smother in disinterest. “You two are mental. If you’re not going to leave, I’m taking my wine and getting directly away from you.”

“Oh, do wait, please,” Madonna snapped. “Deal, remember?”

“I really don’t like making deals with crazy people. Especially…” He paused. “Foreigners.”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. She knew that tone; she’d heard it often enough. “What, you don’t like to use the word _alien_?”

He shrugged. “I really have enough problems without consorting with your sort. It’s very much the wrong sort of consorting.”

He even _sounded_ like Sandshoes. The Doctor resisted the urge to screech in outrage again.

Then Madonna smiled in a way that the Doctor found disturbingly familiar. Stars and cats, no wonder people backed away from her when she did that. “Oh, I think, Celestial, that you’ll be quite satisfied with my sort of deal.”

The Doctor glanced at Madonna. “The _who_? But—they’re not supposed to—I mean—”

“Yes, they do. They’re just not easy to find,” Madonna said.

“Right. Okay.” So, things just got very weird. The Doctor could handle this like a nearly three-thousand-year-old adult.

No, she probably couldn’t.

The Celestial stared at them, his gaze cold, and well—reptilian. Then he took a drink from a wine jar before yelling, “Oi, Nim!”

A man who was refilling a clay jar for one of the serving girls looked up. “What?”

The Celestial pulled a bit of slight-of-hand and tossed a gold coin at Nim. “I need to borrow your room. What’s the gold mean?”

Nim glanced at the coin before looking back at the Celestial. “Pretend it never happened.”

“Exactly. Come along, whoever the Heaven you two are,” the Celestial grumbled.

Madonna cheerfully followed the Celestial into a corner of the room, where deep shadows were masking a back passage. The Doctor went after them, because why not? She’d done stranger things.

She had done stranger things than this, right? Probably. Had to have done.

Nim’s back room was a square with padded stone and wood furniture grouped around a table. It was a bit more homey than the tavern, and even had another window carved into the building to let in a breeze.

The man turned and sat down, sprawling over the largest padded chair. “You know, if you two are going to be wandering about, you might want to at least _try_ to fit in a bit more.”

Madonna frowned. “There isn’t a thing wrong with my clothing.”

“Oh, not your clothing!” The Celestial scowled. “Actually, maybe in your case,” he said, pointing to the Doctor. “But that’s not what I mean.”

_Was that what I looked like when I used that expression?_ the Doctor wondered, and tried not to bury her face in her hands again. This was simply not fair. Mostly the ginger was the unfair part, but—but that face and those limbs, and her genetics were literal twisted bastards!

“I meant how you smell,” he continued in a drawl. “You two are so not local that it’s like an oncoming sneeze. Where are you from, anyway? You’re not human, just human-shaped. Then again, I’m just human-shaped, so I really can’t say much.”

“You said he was human,” the Doctor said blankly.

Madonna shrugged. “Well, yes, but he’s a Celestial, darling. They’re close enough for it not to matter very much.”

“And that—that! You and knowing that word! You can’t just be tossing that word around!” he declared, scowl deepening even further. “Besides. I’m…not a Celestial. Not anymore.”

“Your genetics say otherwise,” Madonna countered.

“If you mean that beeping doohickey, then it can go take a flying fuck. I know what I’m talking about,” the Celestial growled back.

“You, er…okay, I really do try not to be rude, but I’m just by nature a rude person, so I’ve gotta say it,” the Doctor spewed out, sitting down at the table across from the Celestial. “Why are you trying to take us to task about how we _smell_ when you’re wandering about with your eyes looking like _that_?”

The Celestial leaned back in the chair, as if trying to put some more distance between them. “I just tell humans it’s an eye condition. No one’s said another word about it afterwards in…” He paused. “Nearly three thousand years now.”

“Well, I’ve been hanging about with humans for over two thousand years, and not a one of them has ever said a word about me not smelling right,” the Doctor retorted. “Well, actually, there was an incident with an animal pen, and also possibly the alien pollen, but that’s really not the same thing.”

“Fair enough,” the Celestial admitted. “Look, if you want a deal, then you’ve got to give me an answer first, because otherwise it’s going to drive me bloody starkers before we get anywhere. Where are you _from_?”

“Gallifrey,” Madonna answered. “I’m not certain if you would have heard of it.”

“Gallifrey, Gallifrey…” The Celestial frowned as he repeated it. “Oh, yeah, I do know that one. That’s in one of the regions of the universe where Time was kick-started into being Time for the very first time, mostly just to see what would happen. It was a relief when nothing exploded—well, mostly nothing.”

The Doctor narrowed her eyes. “You’re not three thousand years old. You’d have to be far older to know that Gallifrey is in an older part of the universe than the Earth. Or you’d need to be a time traveler.”

“I don’t…no, I don’t travel in time. I just sort of stop it every now and then,” he muttered. “Look, Time in this part of the universe wasn’t really kicked into being a thing that happened until recently, so…” He shrugged. “Three thousand and change. Whatever.”

“Do you have a name?” Madonna asked politely. “If we’re making deals, it seems the socially correct thing to do would be to exchange names. I’m currently calling myself Madonna, and this is Jane.”

“Not certain I’m going to say it’s a pleasure yet. I’m Crawly.”

“Crawly,” Madonna repeated. “Why is that your name?”

“Because I can’t remember what it was before politics were invented,” Crawly drawled out in snide response. “I’m thinking of changing it, but…haven’t really made a decision yet. Anyway, now that everyone is on the same page—is that a rainbow on your shirt?”

The Doctor glanced down at her t-shirt. “Not really. I mean, it’s not an exact replication of the prism of light, now, is it?”

“Good. I hate bloody rainbows.”

“What an odd thing to hate,” Madonna commented, her blonde eyebrows lifting in amusement.

“It reminds me of flooding,” Crawly growled.

“Oh—oh, that mess with the environment turning wonky and forgetting to turn off the waterworks for nearly two months.” The Doctor grimaced. That had been a weather pattern for the ages, just a bit more than two thousand years ago. She’d stopped by to take a look. Made friends with a family in South America living in the mountains with their livestock, surrounded by an ocean that was really not where it belonged.

There would have been so much moisture in the air after that rain. The moment the sun came out, there would have been colorful prisms bouncing all over the place. “With all of the, er…right. I understand completely.”

Crawly stared at her, directly in the eyes. It didn’t feel like a Time Lord’s psychic dissection, but it still left her on the edge of wanting to shiver. “You don’t like it when people die.”

“I don’t like it when people die before their time,” the Doctor replied, feeling her jaw tighten. “It’s a waste. It’s always a waste.”

Crawly blinked twice in what she suspected was a rather deliberate fashion before he glanced at Madonna. “Fine. What do you want?”

“I want a baby,” Madonna said.

Crawly laughed and then took another drink of wine. “Well, you’re in luck! There is a planet full of human men who would probably be happy to oblige you.”

“Oh, most certainly, but you’re the reason my ‘doohickey’ was beeping.” The corner of Madonna’s mouth curled up in a smile. “I am looking for a specific genetic match for the desired result, and you are that match. I would like it very much if you would convenience me.”

Crawly gaped at her. “If I would _what?_”

The Doctor dropped her head onto the tabletop and groaned. “Oh, God. You can’t—you can’t just say that to people!” Now things weren’t just weird, they were _utterly embarrassing_.

“Why not?” Madonna asked. “It’s not as if I want a spouse. Those are rather inconvenient. I just want a baby.”

“You told him to convenience you!” the Doctor shouted against the tabletop. “He’s not Gallifreyan, and you’re not looming!”

“Someone please translate this conversation, if only so I can be as offended as I’m pretty sure I should be,” Crawly requested.

The Doctor lifted her head, wondering why her life was like this. “Madonna is asking you to be a sperm donor.”

Crawly made a choked sound just before the whites of his eyes vanished, the whole of them becoming that rather lovely gold color. “What?”

“Do all Celestials have eyes like yours, or is it just you?” the Doctor asked in fascination.

“Do all—no! Probably not, anyway. I’ve certainly…I don’t remember…no.” Crawly shook his head. “It’s just me. Still not a Celestial; stop calling me that.”

The Doctor nodded. “All right. What should we call you, then?”

Crawly took another drink of wine. “If you’re going to be all technical about it? Demon.”

The Doctor glared at him, offended. “There are no such things as demons! It’s all a bunch of superstitious nonsense!”

Crawly stared at her before he started laughing so hard he fell off his chair. “No such thing—! Oh, for Satan’s sake, you’re serious—!” Then he lapsed into something that sounded disturbingly close to hysteria.

“Oh, please. I’ve even been down into the famous Satan’s Pit. It’s nothing but a bunch of flashy tricks and traps for a big fake beastie,” the Doctor said, insulted.

Crawly clambered back up from the floor, wide-eyed. “You did _what_?”

“Exactly what I said. I even got rid of the problem. Now it’s just a black hole’s problem.”

“When was this, exactly?” Crawly asked. He looked like he was ready to bolt from the room.

“Oh, uhm…that was a while ago for me, hold on.” She did the math. “About seven thousand years or so into the future.”

“Oh. Good. I won’t have to worry about that fallout for a while.” Crawly picked up his wine and apparently stopped breathing for a bit in order to drink the entirety of the remaining jar at once. “Your parents must be so very proud of you. I mean, to be so stupid and yet still be alive? That’s impressive.”

The Doctor glared at him even as she felt herself blush. “I have a feeling that you’re one to talk.”

“Yeah, it means I really do know stupid when I see it,” Crawly agreed, which just made her angrier. “Look.” He turned back to Madonna. “If you want a baby, then you’re damned well going to do something for me, because that’s not even a thing I normally even do. In fact, if you’d come by at pretty much any other time, ever, the answer would be absolutely not, no, and fuck off, just for good measure.”

“I can tell you have two reasons for that,” Madonna said.

“The first reason: _Celestials_ and humans aren’t supposed to do that_—_procreation, specifically. Lucky you; you’re not human, so I don’t have to care,” Crawly told her.

Madonna inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Why is now so particularly auspicious for me, then?”

“Because my employers Downstairs have been wanting me to do a job that I really don’t want to do,” Crawly answered. “I’ve put them off for a full ten years now, and if I keep it up for much longer, they’re going to realize that I’ve no intention of following through, and then my arse is Hell’s fertilizer.”

“What is it you’re supposed to do?” Madonna asked, but even as the words came out, the Doctor knew.

She could see it. There were threads of time stretched all over this little part of the Mediterranean, and they were starting to draw tight, like harp strings ready to snap. “You’re supposed to make Troy fall.”

Crawly looked at her in surprise and suspicion. “How’d you know that?”

“Time Lord,” the Doctor replied absently, taking another look at the strands of time. “It’s a fixed point. It’s supposed to happen. If Troy doesn’t fall, it changes the entire course of history. It’s only little things, at first, but those little things add up, and add up, and add up, and it never stops. Nothing’s ever the same again.”

“You’re creepy,” Crawly observed.

“You wish me to oversee that the fixed point occurs as it should. Your task is to see to it that the city of Troy falls to the armies besieging it, yes?” When Crawly nodded, Madonna smiled. “Then that is exactly what I will do. It is supposed to be a Time Lady’s job to make certain these fixed points occur, after all. Consider it a…a ‘done deal.’”

“You must be really desperate for a baby.” Crawly snapped his fingers. The Doctor felt a slight jolt in the air, more psychic than anything physical. “Done. Enjoy being a parent. Please take your resulting offspring and keep them far away from me, this planet, and oh, yes, definitely me.”

Madonna’s composure finally cracks. “You can’t just—you can’t just do it that way!”

“What, you want me to actually hand you a container? No! I don’t—just—no!” Crawly looked at her in disgust. “Don’t be so bloody weird about it. I just saved you at least ten steps. Check your beeping doohickey if you don’t believe me.”

Madonna retrieved the biometric device from her gown and performed a quick sweep of her abdomen. The Doctor, curious, leaned over to have a look.

“Oh,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat up again.

“I’m pregnant,” Madonna whispered. “Oh. That…oh.”

“Congratulations,” Crawly said sardonically. “Don’t ever tell anyone I did that. Really, I mean it, don’t, because I would get into so much trouble, and not the sort that I happen to enjoy. Get off of this planet and…go…do parenting stuff. Just leave me out of it.”

Madonna lifted her head, brow furrowed. “You would really care so little about a life you’ve created?”

“SHUT UP!” Crawly roared, and then visibly clenched his jaw. The Doctor reared back in shock, but it wasn’t the anger that hit so hard. It was the _pain_ lurking beneath. “You don’t understand. It’s not allowed. At all. Don’t. Mention. It.”

“Do you even like kids?” the Doctor asked, wanting to know. Please, just the one thing, and she won’t ask again.

Crawly gave her a look that struck the Doctor hard in both hearts. “If you knew how many sanctions were on my file for the number of times I’ve refused to muck about with kids, or when I’ve refused to let kids die, or anything of that sort, then you’d know far too much about me, and I wouldn’t be the slightest bit happy about it.”

The Doctor felt an odd sense of mingled relief and sorrow. She didn’t know what was actually going on with Celestial politics (or much about Celestials at all) but anyone who was risking that much to save kids was of a decent sort. Cranky, belligerent, and a complete arse—but decent.

Madonna slowly stood up from the table. “Thank you.”

Crawly’s golden eyes were returning to normal-ish as the sclera returned. “You want to thank me? Forget the stupid words. Words don’t mean anything. Raise your kid to be a good person who asks questions. It gets you into so much trouble, but you should never, ever stop asking questions. Tell them to never just accept things as they are just because someone says that’s how they’re supposed to be. That’s the sort of thank-you I’d give a shit about.”

The Doctor bit her lip. “Madonna, if you want to get a lead on Troy, part of the army that’s been fighting to take down the city is out there in the tavern. You could go talk to them, see if that gives you any ideas.”

“I could just ask you,” Madonna replied. “You already know.”

“Yeah, I do.” The Doctor stared directly into Crawly’s eyes. “But that’s cheating.”

Crawly waited until Madonna went to do as the Doctor suggested, a thoughtful expression on her face. “What do _you_ want, then? A pony?” he asked.

“Oh—no, no. Terrible inventions, horses. They usually don’t like me in the slightest. Granted, there was Susan. She was nice, but that’s a rare sort of horse. No, I…” The Doctor hesitated. “I don’t need a deal or an agreement. I just wanted to say something.”

Crawly spread his hands in invitation. “Have at it. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

“I’ve done a lot of good things.” The Doctor spoke slowly, trying to draw out the right sort of words. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things while trying to do good things. I’ve also done things I can never take back, absolutely terrible things. Sometimes it doesn’t matter if you can go wherever you want in time, because you can’t change it. You can’t make it stop. You have to just…keep going forward. Keep trying. Take the next hand and save the next life, because that’s all you can do for all those times when everything went wrong.

“You call yourself a demon. I’ve been called so much worse,” she said. He merely raised an eyebrow, as if hoping for elaboration. “If you ever hear whispers about The Oncoming Storm, you’re hearing about me, and none of it’s the sort of thing that makes for good bedtime stories.

“I think, deep down, you don’t like that demon label very much.” The Doctor refused to back down when Crawly hissed at her. “Stop that, it’s not polite.”

“Polite? You’re the one talking ssshit,” Crawly retorted.

Okay, so, maybe there was a very good reason for his pupils to be like that. That was a bit fascinating, but it was a huge distraction, so the Doctor tried to ignore it. “Look: you don’t have to agree with me, or even like anything I just said. You say you know stupid when you see it? Well, then I’m damned sure I know it when I see someone who wants to be better, and to hell with the rules that are in the way.”

The Doctor stood up and held out her hand. “So, I’ll be going now.”

Crawly looked at her hand, then up at her, then down at her hand again. After a moment of stony silence, he stood up, reached out, and shook it. His skin was smooth, exactly the same temperature as hers. “Who are you?”

She smiled. “I’m the Doctor. We’ll probably see each other again.”

Crawly flinched. It was slight, but she had the oddest feeling he wasn’t even aware of it. “The Healer.”

“When I can be, yeah.”

“Right, then.” Crawly released her hand. “See you ’round, Not-Jane the Healer.”

“Yeah. Right.” The Doctor nodded and turned away. Then she paused. “Oh, you might want to keep out of Bethlehem about a thousand years from now. You’ll see a really big supernova in the sky right around then, so, you’ll know if it’s stay-away time or not.”

“Why?” Crawly asked, sounding suspicious again.

“Because even if I still think certain parts of it are silly propaganda, someone very important is going to be born there. I’m pretty sure the place will be crawling with Celestials. The sort you claim not to be.”

“Oh.” He hesitated. “That’s nice to know.”

“Yeah.” The Doctor swallowed and wiped at her stupid, stupid eyes again. “Have a good life, hey?”

She found Madonna in the tavern, practically sitting in a soldier’s lap. The Doctor blinked a few times at the sight, because that was her Mum flirting, and it was just entirely weird. “That gets results, I guess. Can I borrow her for a moment?”

The soldier gave the Doctor’s coat a bewildered look. “Uh…sure.”

Madonna followed the Doctor out into the sunshine. “You’re leaving.”

“I’m not just leaving, I’m _running_,” the Doctor replied, and then angrily scrubbed her eyes clear. “Not because it’s not good to see you again, but I need to go see some people and remind myself that everything’s all right. That it’s all right _somewhere_.”

Madonna drew her into a tight embrace. “I know, sweetheart. I love you.”

The Doctor squeezed her eyes shut. “I love you, too. Do what he says about the questions, all right? The results are worth it, believe me.”

Madonna stepped back and smiled at her. “I’ve already seen them. I know they’re worth it. The next time you’re home, make sure to stop by.”

The Doctor nodded. “Yep. Sure. Absolutely I will.”

Madonna gave her a careful look. “_Can _you stop by?”

The Doctor blinked and swore under her breath as her vision blurred. “I really don’t know, truly I don’t. But if I can, I will.”

Madonna smiled. “You’re late for your appointment. Go on, get out of here. You can look up what happens in Troy later.”

“What happens in Troy stays in Troy,” the Doctor quipped.

“What?”

“It’s just—nothing. It’s…bye,” she said, and spun on her heel.

Nope. No more. Feelings overload. This body and this brain and these hearts couldn’t take any more of this.

The TARDIS was right where the Doctor left her. The Doctor paused, remembered something that Sandshoes had programmed in way back in the day, and snapped her fingers.

The doors for the TARDIS slowly swung inward, and the Doctor smiled. “Twisted bastard genetics,” she murmured, and bounced her way into the TARDIS.

The Doctor jammed her rather outdated mobile into one of the TARDIS’s console slots instead of bothering to find a cable. Her ship would talk to the mobile, or the mobile would explode. She could probably still rescue the message, though. “Let’s hear you again. No missing the date this time, all right?” the Doctor glanced up and around, smiling as the ship made a faint hum of agreement. Then she prodded at the mobile screen until the voicemail started to play, this time broadcasted through the TARDIS’s speakers.

“Hey, Doctor.”

The Doctor felt another flush of happiness and guilt at the sound of Mickey Smith’s voice. Happy-guilt was very much ugh and terrible. She deserved it, but ugh.

“Martha is making me be the one to phone you, since she’s afraid if she rings you up, she’s just going to yell at you. Not sure why she thinks I won’t, but…yeah, I can probably save that for later.

“Anyway: today is twenty-second May of 2020. Problem is, it’s been twenty-second May for several days now. It just keeps on repeatin’ over and over, with a reset point every day at noon, right on the bloody dot. Only people who’ve traveled in time, or stood outside of time—don’t ask, I don’t even want to know, an’ I’m the one dealing with it—are the ones who’re aware of the repeat bit. Everyone else forgets. I swear it’s like that Bill Murray fellow in _Groundhog Day_, but at least _he_ didn’t have to worry about Weeping Angels turning up, along with some other things I’d really rather not deal with.”

Mickey paused, sighed, and continued. “Look. I know you’re wantin’ to stay away from us, God knows why, but we need your stupid, skinny arse right now. We don’t know how to fix this. This is your sort of problem, Doctor. Hell, we don’t even know what’s causing it, though the ginger keeps yelling about someone named Samael, whoever that is.”

The Doctor frowned. That name was familiar, definitely. She was going to need to look that up once she was in the right era and could borrow some Wi-Fi, because it wasn’t popping up in the TARDIS’s database.

Almost everything popped up in the TARDIS’s database. It was _weird_ when it didn’t, and that meant it was probably going to be a lot of fun to figure out.

“I don’t know if you can break through whatever is causing this time loop,” Mickey said. “Maybe if you drop in a day earlier or something. I was never really good at the time travel bit, more the shooting the bad guys part. Just…we need you, all right? We might—_might_—even miss you being about. So you know, come and save the Earth again, all right? I’m really starting to hate this day. Jack suggested I leave this mobile on and charged, so you can track the signal. I hope that works. I’d better see you soon, because if you make my wife sad, I’m gonna kick your arse out and about all over London.”

The Doctor clapped her hands together. “Oh! Jack! That was genius, you amazing fifty-first century boy. Glad you remembered that, that’s a lot easier on the old girl than trying to aim for a date that’s stuck in a time loop.”

She turned off the message and left the old mobile in place, pulling out the new one Yasmin had insisted she get from her coat pocket. She dialed Yas’s number and gave it a bit of a nudge so it’d land on the right date, and then rolled her eyes when the mobile went right to voicemail. Bugger.

“Listen, Fam. This message should be reaching you on twentieth May in 2020. Oh, I really hope I didn’t miss. Anyway. Two days from now for you lot, on the twenty-second, some sort of time-loop is going to start at noon, and the day is going to start repeating itself. You’ve been with me in the TARDIS, so you’ll know it, but no one else around you is going to remember that it happens, and yes, I’ve got advanced notice, and that’s how I know. I’ve no idea what’s going on with that yet, and…” She hesitated. “Not sure, I just have a feeling it’s not the sort of thing I should drag you lot into, not until I know what’s happening. I’m not even sure where I’m going to be yet, aside from helping to try and fix it. Soon as I know what’s going on, I’ll call you. Or I’ll turn up because I fixed it and it’ll be time for pancakes or sommat. Oh, I could really go for pancakes right now. How’s that for timing?

“Right. You lot, be careful, because there are nasty buggers that are going to be about during that loop. Oh, and if you see any angel statues that move? Don’t blink. Literally. They can only move when you aren’t looking at them. Fortunately, they don’t kill you, they just dump you in the past somewhere, so if worst comes to it, leave me a message somewhere obvious, call me on the mobile if your phone survives the trip—I’ll come and get you. Behave yourselves. Or make trouble, whichever works out for the best.” She ended the call and shoved her mobile back into her coat.

Right. Time to get to work.

The Doctor dialed in the phone number Mickey had used to contact her on the old mobile. Then she added a command from the TARDIS that would hone in on the signal around about the time the original message was sent. “Giving you a ring now, Mickey Smith. Hope you’re up for it."

She gave the console a brief pat before she pulled the lever, listening to the engines whine. “Come on then, darling girl. We’re late for a date in 2020!”

* * * *

Aziraphale woke up to the distinct feel of someone in his sleeping chamber. He sat up, immediately calling for light, and watched as Crawly clamped his hands over his eyes and swore viciously.

“Sorry, sorry!” Aziraphale said in repentance. “There’s been a war on for ten years. I didn’t realize it was you!” He paused. “You could have _knocked_ you know.”

“Sorry, knocking is still sort of a new idea.” Crawly dropped his hands and blinked a few times with his eyes extra-wide. “Oh, bugger, I hate it when you do that.”

“I did apologize. What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked, crawling out of bed to join Crawly at the window. Moonlight was flooding in through the wooden grid, casting odd shadows on their faces. Outside, the massive courtyard of Troy was quiet. There had been quite a bit of revelry earlier, though Aziraphale had chosen to ignore it. There were too many recent deaths in the area for him to feel much like celebrating, so he’d stayed in his rooms.

“Warning you,” Crawly said. “I didn’t realize you’d figured out sleep.”

“It still isn’t to my preference at all, but there’s been enough healings and whatnot required of late that a lie-down sounded refreshing.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes as he caught sight of the giant construct outside. “Is that—is that a giant wooden _horse_?”

“No, angel. That’s a piñata_, _the sort of piñata that no one ever, ever wants to get at a birthday party.”

Aziraphale was about to ask what a piñata was when a hidden trapdoor opened in the bottom of the giant horse…and began disgorging soldiers who were most definitely not of Troy. “Oh, dear. You finally gave in and did the job, then?”

“No. I subcontracted it out. I told you I didn’t want anything to do with the fall of Troy,” Crawly muttered.

“Why ever not?”

Crawly glared at him. “Because you live here, you idiot.”

Aziraphale felt his face grow warm. “Oh. Yes. That.”

“Yes, that,” Crawly repeated snidely. “Also, I liked it here. After this, it’s probably going to be a bit rough for a few years. Oh, and I might’ve accidentally cursed that one king. Odysseus, I think that’s his name.”

“Why on Earth did you do that?” Aziraphale asked.

“I was really, really drunk, and he said…something.” Crawly shrugged his lack of concern. “It wasn’t a fatal curse. He’s just not really going to have a head for directions for a while.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’m surprised you didn’t take away his head for wine.”

“No, see, that would just be evil.” Crawly snapped his fingers, packing up Aziraphale’s belongings in a sack in rather abrupt fashion. Aziraphale thought of complaining, but, well, it was efficient. “Do you want to stay and witness the slaughter, or leave?”

Aziraphale shuddered. “I’ve seen quite enough slaughter of late. I still have to witness it, but at a distance is much to my preference.”

“Good. Let’s get the Heaven out of here.” Crawly led them through the city, away from the soldiers that were now opening the gates to begin the attack in earnest.

Aziraphale shook his head. Ten years of war, and for what? A matter of mere pride_? _It was sinful as well as disgraceful. “I’ll miss this place.”

“Yeah.”

Crawly didn’t speak again until they were slipping out one of the underground passageways, standing in the moonlight again. He raised his face to the soft silvery light, his brow furrowed, eyes golden and sharp in the darkness. “Angel, have you ever had the feeling that you missed something really obvious, but it was the sort of obvious that you’ve got no idea how to even begin to figure out what the obvious bit was in the first place?”

Aziraphale, who had already been contending with some rather inappropriate thoughts about a very specific demon, nodded. “Fairly often, I’m afraid. I mean, for the most part, I know what the obvious is, but there is something beneath that, and it’s…well, it’s unfathomable.”

“Thank you for _not_ saying ineffable,” Crawly said, smiling. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually. Or I’ll get really drunk and forget. I mean, I’m fine with either option, really.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Look, there’s a perfectly good hillside not far from here with an excellent view of the city. I’ll miracle us up some wine to drink while I write up a report on this…this…”

“Shitshow,” Crawly supplied. “Disastrous bloody shitshow.”

“I can’t put that word into my report.” Aziraphale paused. “Even if it’s accurate.”

“That’s all right. I’m using that word in my report for Below as often as possible to make up for you being polite.”

Aziraphale and Crawly were already on their way through three jars of wine by the time Aziraphale’s penmanship began to falter. He sobered himself up a bit to keep things on the level and then glanced at Crawly. “Subcontracted out. You can do that?”

Crawly was looking rather amused by the fact that the giant wooden horse was on fire. “Yeah. I think either of us could, and no one would ever notice.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been experimenting. The last time I was asked to do something by Below that was not to my taste, I sought out an actual saint and performed a balanced trade with them—they would do the deed, and I’d do something for them in return,” Crawly said.

“Crawly!”

“What?” Crawly gave him an annoyed look. “She was a nice lady. I didn’t want to stain her soul. I just wanted to prove a point, and she was educated and curious enough to want to see the results. She performed the deed, I returned the favor, and she was still just as pure in spirit after it was done.”

Aziraphale stopped writing. “What does that mean, then?”

“I think that Above and Below do not give a single fuck how things get done down here as long as they’re done. Who, what, where, why, how? I really don’t think it matters.” Crawly sneered. “I got a commendation for what she did. That’s how much attention they were paying.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale glanced down at his scroll. “I wonder if I’m wasting my time, as well.”

“Could always experiment.” Crawly took another drink and sniffed to clear his sinuses, nose up in the air as he listened and felt for any potential eavesdroppers. “Write out the long version the way you usually do, but send up a short, lovely summary of tonight’s events first. See what happens.”

“I think I’d still write up long versions for things like this. The record does go into the Library.” Aziraphale hoped so, anyway. He was recording literal history, after all.

“Hmm. Remind me to tell you about Hell’s library sometime, angel.”

Aziraphale glanced at him. Crawly didn’t prefer to discuss Hell in the slightest. “What’s it like?”

Crawly grinned. “Hellish.”

Aziraphale groaned and snatched the wine away from him. “Just for that, the rest of his is mine.”

“That’s all right.” Crawly lay back in the grass, staring up at the clear night sky. “I’m good for the moment.”

That was very much not in character for Crawly at all. “Are you all right?”

Crawly nodded. “I was just…have you ever wondered what it’s like in the rest of the universe? I mean, I know it’s been a while since I’ve seen any of it.”

“Oh, all the other pockets of life that God was experimenting with and plotting?” Aziraphale briefly considered the stars. “Sometimes, but I really do like it here. First-hand historical observation, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“And you, Crawly?”

“Sometimes.” Crawly grimaced. “Of course, I’d be dragged right back here in a heartbeat if Below discovered I’d decided to go on a cosmic walkabout.”

“It’s for the best, then, I suppose,” Aziraphale offered.

“It’s stupid,” Crawly mumbled.

“I know, dear.” Aziraphale sighed and went back to recording the terrible end of the Trojan War. He dared occasional glances over at the demon while he wrote, all too aware of Crawly’s beautiful mess of red hair and the starlight reflected in his golden eyes. “One day,” he found himself saying. “One day, we will.”

Crawly smiled. “Making plans to kidnap me, angel?”

“Well, if you want to just stay here…”

“I didn’t say I’d mind.” Crawly sat up. “Where’s the rest of that wine—oh! Fuck, someone just took down Achilles!”

“What? Where?” Aziraphale asked in rather barbaric excitement. “An arrow to the heel? Really?”

“That tendon hurts like a bastard if someone slices it, though,” Crawly pointed out. “Still, awful way to go.”

“Crawly?” Aziraphale nudged his friend after Achilles was well and truly shuffled of his mortal coil. He kept the touch brief. Crawly was getting better about any sort of physical touch, but it was a very, _very_ slow process.

“Hmm?”

“Pick a star. Any star,” Aziraphale said. “And eventually, we’ll go and take a look.”

Crawly regarded him in thoughtful silence. “Oh? When is that?”

Aziraphale hesitated. He honestly wasn’t sure. “When it’s the _right_ time.”

“The right time.” Crawly swallowed and turned his gaze back to the burning city. “All right. Sounds good.”

Aziraphale tried to hide his surprise. “It does?”

“Yeah. It really does." 

**Author's Note:**

> I lurk on Tumblr @deadcatwithaflamethrower


End file.
